[ Tuesday, August 31, 2004 ]
It's 12:53 in the day. Cody is asleep & perfect 11 feet away from me, in his mother's bed.[ Tuesday, August 24, 2004 ]
I've been searching the internet for an ebook for Lisa. No such luck. On the internet or at the public library. I'm wondering how she'll get the first three chapters read by Thursday without a sudden trip to Joseph Beth or Hastings.
--Life in a small town.--
Two hours ago I scribbled lines while Cody ate scrambled eggs with ketchup & cheese. I thought about adding green food coloring to his eggs, adding ham. He's too little to appreciate that now. I'll save it for when he's older. For a time when he'll be able to laugh & giggle at the sight of green eggs & ham & maybe remember it, appreciate it & hang on to it.
I've been collaging in my head today. Imagining drab olive backgrounds with scratches & black & white text. There is a need to create something visual right now. But no outlet. So instead, I turn to words--those scrawled on blue lined pages & these right here, right now.
I've been thinking about blue mason jars, soapy dishwater, the prettiest shade of green, what it is to live passionately, the need to hang on to what we have for as long as we can. The need to document it, photograph it, write about it, analyze it, just hang on to it. How in so many ways, we attempt to make ourselves, our lives infinite & permanent.
There is no best method to live. We're all just scratching, trying to figure it out as we go, becoming whoever it is we need to become in order to survive with our insides intact. There is so much beauty in this world...even in the moments that are ugly, grotesque, that make us close our eyes because our minds cannot take in what we see.
Saturday my mamaw's eight children lined up for a photograph. They were smiling & happy, pinching each other & laughing. I thought about all the moments they'd been through. The hunger, the sadness, living poorly but living. I thought about it all. How each event molded them. How it inspired such will, such fight inside each of them. And at the same time, formed this huge lump of softness & tenderness right in their centers. I think of beauty. Hard outsides. Soft insides. Overcoming again & again. Rising above. Rising high above. With dignity intact. Creating a life for their own children, so far removed from the childhood they knew.
Dave met my family. And it was beautiful to me how easy everything was. How it felt like he'd been at our family reunions before. How it felt like I'd always had him there, beside me, listening to those stories & appreciating the humor & closeness.
Sunday, I met his mom. And again, it was all just so easy. I don't know that I expected everything to play out like this. But on every level, I've just felt warmth surrounding me completely.
Saturday night, I curled underneath a quilt Dottie gave me. She & my mom made it for Dottie's mother out of their dresses. The back is made out of worn, soft cotton & curling underneath it made me feel like a little girl. Just nestled perfectly & comfortable. I am so appreciative of the things my aunts have saved for me. The pieces of my mom that seem to keep coming into my life. Little items that have been saved for years, then remembered & passed on.
There was conversation this weekend, closeness, moments that made me want to cry either because I was overwhelmed by the beauty & meaning inside the moment...or saddened at the situation.
Each letting go is a tiny death.
Sometimes I just accept that for what it is & sometimes I'm just struck by it, lost in it & feel it so plainly.
But our choices are our choices and as sad as that is, there will always be the need to let go.
Sometimes I just wish it didn't make us feel so damn guilty.
~ Rebecca 12:52 PM [+] (0) comments
"Now, when I get back here, I expect to find all of you marching through the streets with great bunches of wildflowers in your arms." - Kenneth Patchen[ Thursday, August 12, 2004 ]
Friday: Driving aimlessly through a city, water deep on the roads. Feeling as though I need to be wearing a poodle skirt & a sweater, or at least red lipstick & a kerchief over my hair. Staring out a window, eleven floors up, watching crowds gather then disperse on the sidewalk below. Discussing blue neon crosses, the synchronicity of living, Louisiana. Humming..."Jumbalaya, a crawfish pie and-a filet gumbo..." Feeling so full - complete - hidden - exposed - beautiful connected. In love with a man - a monsoon - my life--how it's all lead to this.
Saturday: Willie Nelson on stage. Singing "Always on my Mind". Dave behind me. Static around me. Bob Dylan. "All Along the Watchtower". The urge to jump straight up & down when he makes the chorus rock. That excitement inside my bones, wanting to shoot out through my body, my legs, my arms, my feet. I can't contain the energy. Music is almost everything.
Sunday: Arts & projects. Two hours spent inside a shop discussing books. Jack Kerouac. A notebook inside a shirt pocket. Writing no more or less than one tiny page. Comparing that poem to a jazz riff. The Fuck Up. The Perks of Being a Wallflower. Charlie. His anonymous someone. Graffiti art. Brian Froud. Leafing through pages together. Surrounded by others & still, alone in a shop, sharing art, words, the Lester Bangs coincidence, postcards.
Monday: John Lee Hooker. Big Joe Williams. Memphis Slim prowling through a house. Suddenly we are in the delta. Across the road, alligators crawl through the bottom, which has magically turned into marsh & swamp. Grilled shrimp, portobello mushrooms. Nirvana--loud & raw, wrapped around us like a blanket or a cloud of dust. Seinfeld. Laughter. Comfort. The constant is always comfort.
This weekend was just an experience. Being tucked away in the city with Dave felt absolutely right. I felt so much a part of this world. And at the same time, when we were surrounded by people...I still felt hidden. The people, sounds, smells, sights were our background.
There were moments that I wanted to trap forever. Some of them because they were just ours & some that were just absolute irreplaceable moments.
A snapshot: We're behind a group of four older people sitting on a blanket. In 30 minutes Willie Nelson will appear on stage. Beads on the short haired lady. The other--gorgeous silver hair tucked into a french braid. I'm overwhelmed by this image. Instantly I think...how beautiful this is. They've come to a Willie Nelson concert, no doubt recalling how they were back in the day. I think...this moment will bring back memories for them. Dave says "There's gonna be some pot fired up on that blanket tonight." I don't see this when I look at them. Willie Nelson appears on stage. Everyone stands. We are beside the group. I smell dope. I look around. Beside me, the old man offers a hit. I turn him down but smile. The short haired lady is on the blanket with her shirt off & bra exposed. She's changing into the Willie Nelson t-shirt she just purchased. They bring out the clips. Pass back & forth. Continue passing back & forth, staying still the few seconds it takes to inhale deeply, exhale & sigh. Then they're dancing again. Which turns into more of a sway by the end of the night.
I watch a young girl & boy dance. Both with dreadlocks. The boy blonde. The girl with pink tips. They don't look suited to each other. He's drunk & she looks needy--the way she clings to him. I think she's adapted this look. It's not something that was in her. I feel sadness when I look at them. I'm not sure if it's coming from her or if it's the distance in his eyes. The way he doesn't seem to notice her, but dances with her. It's a beautiful image - the sight of them dancing together, old-fashioned, with her arm draped around his neck, the other holding his hand. But I think he just wants to dance. And she's there. Her eyes tell me...she knows this. She wonders who he dances with when she isn't there. She wonders how long she'll be there.
Another snapshot: Heading down mainstreet, I spot a woman perched on the sidewalk. From a block away I can tell that this woman was at some point a man. I look at her face as we drive by. I recognize her face. I've looked for this face before, when I've been in Lexington, drunk in the back of a cab, prowling through the streets. We circle the block. Pull in. I do recognize this face. She cannot see me. She sees Dave. Gives him the 'come hither' look. I bend down. She recognizes me. I say 'Hi. How are you. I thought I recognized you but wasn't sure.' There are I love yous exchanged. She's in a slinky black dress, with newly purchased parts almost exposed. On the bench in front of her another Lady sits. Behind them, a woman. The woman says "Are you registered to vote?" "Yeah, we are.", Dave responds. The Lady on the bench, stocky & perhaps Latina says "You better be registered to vote, you'll make her mad." She makes mad two syllables. We chuckle. Exchange I love yous again. That moment was priceless. And that image would be such a perfect part of a voter registration campaign. The podium in the background, nestled perfectly between the Lady on the bench, done up in black eyeshadow & fake lashes, and the Lady perched on the sidewalk, in her glitter & lacy black dress with a thigh-thigh slit.
We both feel like we've just witnessed a perfect pop culture moment. Except that it exists only in our heads, in our memory bank.
Sunday we bought postcards, mattes & frames. Sunday night we came home & began assembling our little projects. My postcard with the Patchen quote, scrawled & painted in white didn't fit the matte. The edge of the words extended past the border of the white matte. It wasn't perfect. I like it better that way. The words can't be contained inside that perfect 4x6 square. I think about what that means. How that applies to art or words or anything that we create. How the good stuff can't really be captured. How it will always extend past the edges when we try to contain it or fit it into a perfect little box. That's what art is. That's what we are. This beautiful - gritty - ugly - sorrowful - graceful - dignified image splashed momentarily on canvas or skin, but always fighting against the feeling of being held down, trapped, or framed perfectly with no room for movement. We are movement. We are constantly spilling over our own edges, defining new ones.
Resentment comes when you're around others who don't allow you to expand.
Comfort is the result when you're around someone who allows you to do so.
"Now, when I get back here, I expect to find all of you marching through the streets with great bunches of wildflowers in your arms."
That's my new anthem. God bless you, Kenneth Patchen.
Much love.
~ Rebecca 8:19 PM [+] (0) comments
bukowski's in bed with us[ Tuesday, August 10, 2004 ]
at 4:23 in the morning.
we have just unhinged
our hips & now
a poem for old snaggletooth
roots through the sheets.
first e.e, now bukowski--
this bed will see many men,
all with the ability
to make my eyelids
stutter.
Yesterday was one of those days--I opened the door, stood on the porch, began walking to my car. Coming down the steps the air was absolutely clear. As soon as my feet hit the sidewalk, I felt the first few drops of rain. It was absolutely beautiful yesterday. I had plans to watch the meteor shower. Yesterday evening, apocalyptic clouds moved in. They didn't move out.
Coming home from Shoemaker Ridge, a yellow mustang almost took my ass out. A little further down the road, I met another car hell bent on becoming car #53 in the Shoemaker Ridge Pile 'Em Up. Now I'm thinking I need a big ass camo truck with a dozer blade on front. Road Rage? Nah. Just thinking about making this world a better place...the best that I know how.
When I got home I ran a bath. Ten minutes later, I found the tub empty. Beautiful, beautiful. I just felt like giving up.
I didn't.
And a rather blah day turned into 6 a.m. discussions about Jackson Pollock, art, poetry, web design, the insides of us. Pieces of paper exchanged, words scrawled, crossed out, numbered, inhaled. It felt good to share those things. To really share those things. Early in the morning. In a little house. In Grassy Creek.
~ Rebecca 7:32 PM [+] (1) comments
i went to[ Monday, August 09, 2004 ]
the end of america
to find the girl i should have been
at the turning of the century,
standing underneath the preserved oak
toes in sand, torso
the color of sea.
~ Rebecca 12:11 AM [+] (0) comments
my right now
is not similar to
your yesterday
they are not the same.
though our bodies have traveled identical countries,
your arteries boil with paranoia
a thirst for catastrophe--the moment
your world will chaotically mushroom, bloom
into heaps of metal & dust,
fragments suffocating
then severing
the impossible head of hope.
my skin is injected with the words of a city,
the electricity of a touch
the tingling of histories so compact & tightly woven--
arms - legs - abdomen - neck
tagged with my own unreadable graffiti, quietly simmering
while the blood inside my stem brews
into something a bit more than everything,
into something new & beautiful & mad.
you will choose starvation
but i am quietly hungry,
nibbling on thens & nows, sipping
on 3 am fog & a life that will leave me
so full.
~ Rebecca 10:47 PM [+] (1) comments
